


Kohl and Silk

by scatterglory



Category: White Collar
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 05:57:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatterglory/pseuds/scatterglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moonlight, an eyeliner pencil, and two sleeping lovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kohl and Silk

**Author's Note:**

> In response to two different (but very similar) prompts on [](http://community.livejournal.com/collarkink/profile)[**collarkink**](http://community.livejournal.com/collarkink/). Feedback is loved! :)

Kohl and Silk

They lay in the moonlight, wrapped in each other's arms. El's head on Peter's chest, his chin nestled in her hair, the silk sheet white and ephemeral around their waists. Their hair swirled together on the pillow, their lashes long and dark on their cheeks. The rise and fall of their chests, breathing in perfect time.

Neal's eyes burned holes through the dark space that separated him from his sleeping lovers. Naked, he sprawled over the overstuffed armchair, one arm slung over the back, one leg tucked underneath him, and his other limbs hanging loosely to the side. His pose indicated relaxation, but the tension thrumming through every muscle of his body spoke of an entirely different state.

The fingers on his right hand flexed involuntarily, and he bit his lip. His eyes traced the lines of Peter's body, firm and defined, a study of darkness and light. He lingered on the softness of El's shoulder, the fullness of her lips, the way her face was shadowed and yet still undeniably beautiful. His cock, limp after their earlier exertions, twitched; he shifted in the chair, unable to tear his gaze away from their sleeping forms.

El murmured in her sleep, and snuggled closer to Peter. Neal bit back a gasp--the angle of her head, the way her lips parted just so, the way the sheet draped across her hips, heightening every curve--he couldn't bear it. And Peter, framing her, holding her, the perfect chiseled foil to her graceful figure . . .

He was rummaging through her things before he knew what he was doing. From her makeup bag, he drew a self-sharpening kohl eyeliner pencil. _This. I can use this._ He faced the wall across from their bed. The mirror on El's vanity table was a perfect frame, capturing the entire bed; glancing at their image again, fixing the lines in his mind, he turned to the wall and began to draw.

_Through a mirror _. . . Broad strokes at first, rough shapes in black, graceful lines of stilled motion, the hint of something more, something human. He glanced at the vanity. _They are my mirror._ The soft S-curves of their limbs, the tighter curves of her hair, the barest beginning of shadows. His breathing was uneven. _Through their eyes, I become myself. _ Now the cut of a cheekbone, the bow of a lip, the dash of eyebrows merging into darkness on that side of the body. He felt himself growing hard as they came to life beneath his fingers. _All for them._ His fingers on her hip, her leg across his, hidden and yet revealed by the folds of the sheet. His love for them in every stroke, every line, every breath.

He was about to step back, assess his work, when--

"Neal, what . . . ?"

Heart in his throat, he whirled around. Peter was sitting up in bed, looking at him in confusion. Panicked, he froze, pencil still resting on the wall.

* * *

Peter came awake slowly. El was sleeping on his chest, her favorite position, and Neal--

Neal was gone.

Resisting his first impulse--to jump up, find their beautiful, still-painfully insecure lover, and lead him back in to the warm safety of their bed--he carefully laid El to the side and sat up.

To see Neal, still naked, trembling in front of the wall at the foot of the bed.

"Neal, what . . . ?" Just as Neal turned, he registered what the young man had been doing. He stared at the image of himself and El, captured in a hand both bold and delicate, real as life and yet more beautiful than was humanly possible. He felt his mouth hanging open as he stared at the masterpiece where his bedroom wall had been.

"Neal . . ." he breathed.

A choking sound brought his attention to the work's creator. Neal was frozen in place, trembling violently, blue eyes wide and frightened, flushed and aroused. His hand gripped something--a pencil?--so tightly that his knuckles were white in the dim light.

"Peter--I--" he stammered.

_He's . . . terrified?_ The realization was like a blow. _He thinks he's done something wrong._ Peter opened his arms. "Come here," he said in his gentlest tone.

Shaking even harder, Neal crawled up the bed and into his arms.

"I'm so sorry, I'll clean it all up, I just--you looked so--" Neal babbled in a high whisper.

"Shh, no, no, it's beautiful. It's beautiful," he whispered. He caught Neal's chin, tilted his head up to look into his eyes. "You're beautiful."

"Mmm?" El raised her head sleepily. Seeing them next to her, she smiled. Then she rolled over, and was asleep before her head hit the pillow. They both looked at her for a moment, then at each other. Neal had stopped shaking; Peter smiled at him. Neal returned his gaze uncomprehendingly.

_Some things are better said without words._ Peter ran his hands down Neal's back, cupping his ass with one, trailing the fingertips of the other over his hip to encircle his erection. Neal gasped, and Peter covered Neal's mouth with his own.

"You will leave it just as it is," he murmured. Pulling back, he looked into Neal's eyes. "Never apologize to me for your art. This is you, Neal. Not the cons, not the forgeries." He looked at the wall. Neal's head turned as his gaze followed. "This. This is you."

Neal shuddered, and buried his head in Peter's chest. "No, it's not. I can't--I'm not--"

_An artist._ Peter heard the unspoken words. "Yes. You are." He tightened his grip on Neal's cock, and Neal bit back a whimper. He buried his face in Neal's hair. "You were born to do this." He stroked Neal again. Neal writhed against him. Peter looked down, searching for a kiss--

But Neal's eyes were focused on El. She was facing away from them, and her entire back was exposed in the moonlight. Glancing at Neal's hand, Peter saw that he still clutched the pencil. Smiling to himself, Peter loosened his hold.

Now Neal looked up at him, desperate, asking for permission. He ducked his head, kissed Neal soundly on the mouth, and then let him go entirely.

Neal flowed across the bed and knelt over El. Slowly, reverently, he raised the pencil. He gave Peter one last glance.

Then he was gone.

* * *

Her skin was perfect, pale and smooth and so, so soft. The eyeliner flowed onto her with with the slightest pressure, rich black lines on a living canvas finer than silk. She murmured under his touch but did not wake; she could sleep through almost anything. _Is my touch a part of her dreams . . . ?_

Dreams. Dreams that erased the nightmare of years spent alone, afraid, on the run, behind bars, trapped and stifled and never, ever free. Dreams of Peter and El, lifting him out of the darkness, carrying him into the light of their love, holding him safe in their arms.

There was only one thing he could possibly draw on her.

* * *

Peter watched Neal, rather than his drawing. He saw the blue eyes, usually so light and pointedly carefree, become completely focused on this single task. He saw the lines of Neal's body, so sleek and flawless, quiver with unseen energy. He saw the flush on Neal's cheeks, visible even in the dimness, and the way his cock throbbed with every stroke. Peter was completely absorbed in the artist, and didn't even notice the art until Neal sat back. Eyes sparkling, lips parted and full, he looked at Peter and smiled with breathtaking beauty. Taking that as permission to look, Peter gasped at the exquisiteness of Neal's creation.

"Wings. God, Neal, you gave her wings."

* * *

El woke when Neal cried out. She turned to her husband and lover, smiling to see Neal arch back into the pillow as Peter licked the length of his cock. Neal had something in his hand, she couldn't quite tell what--a pencil, maybe? But that wasn't as interesting as Neal's mouth, open and wet and begging to be tasted. She kissed him deeply, caressing his tongue with hers, sucking his lips, feeling the moment when he came with a wordless cry in the back of his throat. When Peter stretched out next to Neal and took him in his arms, she completed the circle and lay her head on Neal's shoulder.

Peter cleared his throat. "El--you should look in the mirror."

"Mmm?" The thought of leaving their warmth was less than appealing.

"No--" Neal protested weakly. "Don't. They'll be all smudged."

She looked at Peter quizzically. He nodded toward the back wall. "Look at that, too."

"Oh--my." That was worth getting out of bed for; she needed a closer look. "Neal? You did--? Well, obviously you did . . ."

She glanced back at Neal, who gave her an embarrassed smile. As she turned back to the bed, she caught her reflection in the mirror. "Oh. Oh!" Her hand flew to her mouth, and she twisted around in a vain attempt to get a better view. "Oh Neal, they're wonderful!"

"They're smudged," he repeated, ducking his head.

As she climbed back into bed, she heard Peter chuckle. "Then I guess you'll just have to draw them again."

Snuggling against them both, she felt rather than saw Neal's smile.

". . . I guess I will."

_Fin._


End file.
